


Broken Chains

by Leiazher (Earlephant)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crowley Needs a Hug (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Graphic descriptions of war, Hopeful Ending, M/M, PTSD, Panic Attack, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, They'll work it out and hug and talk it through and hug again, They're gonna be fine I swear, and Crowley's gonna fall asleep with his head on Aziraphales lap, and he's gonna get a hug and they're gonna go for a drive and have a picnic, and wake up the next morning with the angel still there, descriptions fo war, none of which I've written here but... eh... maybe next time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26647105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earlephant/pseuds/Leiazher
Summary: He had been hesitant, at first.How could he lift a weapon toward his fellow angels?But he soon saw that they didn't think of him as one of them anymore. They thought him beneath them, they were disgusted, and they attacked.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	Broken Chains

It was supposed to be a date. 

Aziraphale had gotten stuck at some Sumerian tablets describing an ancient recipe he had come up with, and Crowley had listened for a while before the angel went silent, thoughtfully staring at the tablet, debating whether he should change the garlic proportions to what he had actually used in the end.

Crowley wandered on. 

Museums were interesting, they really were, a building full of history as humans saw it. Not everything was correct of course, and they sometimes drew wildly inaccurate conclusions about mundane objects. Not to talk about the dinosaur skeletons.

And now he stood here, rooted to the spot, stuck in his memories and so lost not even the other visitors could see him.

The Archangel Michael, with their lance, piercing through the ribs of one of their siblings. 

Why did the humans glorify war? Why did they immortalize things that should stay in the past?

The fall hadn't been pretty. It hadn't been a quick decision or a quick descent. It had been war, bloody and devastating, as if God had given them all corporations just so they could bleed.

Crowley didn't know how long he had been fighting in the end, he couldn't remember when his wings were broken, he couldn't remember the slashing or the beating. It was all just flashes, confusion, anger, despair.

He had been hesitant, at first. 

How could he lift a weapon toward his fellow angels?

But he soon saw that they didn't think of him as one of them anymore. They thought him beneath them, they were disgusted, and they attacked.

He defended himself. And all the while questioning if he should keep going or if he should let them end him. 

Something, some kernel of hope, some stupid, _stupid_ part of him spurred him on, kept him fighting. Because maybe they could win?

He couldn't remember which angel was the first, which one he delivered the fatal blow to. He couldn't remember their name or their essence. He had snuffed their grace in a moment of desperation.

And it hadn't been the last.

Brothers and sisters slaughtering each other, painting the heavens red. And he was part of it. _He was part of it._

He couldn't breathe, his vision swam, but in front of him and clear as day, was that painting commemorating the _justice_ of war.

It wasn't justice.

It had _never_ been justice.

It was unfair and despicable. Unnecessary but for the "Great plan". Unnecessarily but for some "ineffable" reason.

His hearing faded, a faint ringing in his ears signaling what he knew would lead to a panic attack, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. Flashes of war and destruction, blinding lightning and deafening thunder as angel after angel was snuffed out, erased from existence. Grace exploding in a billion shards of broken glass, littering the battlefield and cutting deep into anyone who tripped over the bodies.

It could have been days, months, centuries, but they were driven back step by step, they were forced backwards, farther and farther, until the ground under their feet fell away, and they fell with it.

The pain, he could deal with. The burning of feathers and skin and hair, he could withstand.

But Her love being ripped from his chest? _Pure agony._

He felt tears on his cheeks, he felt the constricting grip of sorrow around his ribs and throat, his heart beating a mile a minute. And he was stuck, _stuck stuck stuck._

He was _stuck_ and he didn't know where to go, he didn't know how to get out _get out get out get out._

Her love, ripped from him, Her love, torn out, Her love, denied from him, Her love, _too good for him._

He had only asked questions. He hadn't deserved to fall.

But the first angel he killed, and all the others? He deserved to fall for that.

He deserved it. He deserved it. _He deserved it. He dese-_ "Crowley? Crowley dear, look at me."

He twitched, taking a ragged breath as his lungs protested, why wasn't he running? There was an angel _right there_ and it would _kill him_ and he had to _run_.

"Crowley, look at me." It said, its voice was calm but firm, he knew this angel, didn't he? He recognized it, was it the first one? Was it the first one he had killed? 

"Come back to me, my love." Hands gripped his shoulders, and it was reflex to pull his arms up, grab the wrists in a crushing grip, his claws growing to tear the threat apart, _but no_ , no, something was different. _I know you._

"Shh, shh, it's just me, love, come on, look at me now, there's a good dear."

He was being turned around, away, there were some staggering steps, and somewhere to sit. And as if his body had been waiting for it, he collapsed down on the bench. The hands on his shoulders were pulled away, gently dislodging his now weak grip, and he thought that was it. But a warm hand grabbed his own, offering a gentle squeeze.

"I debated changing that recipe, but ultimately, one of the wonders of humanity is how they change things, isn't it?" The angel said, his thumb calmly tracing over Crowley's bony knuckles. "They probably figured out you'd need more than five cloves of garlic, it's up to taste, after all."

_Oh_.

Aziraphale.

Of course. _Of course_.

Crowley forced a deep breath, and Aziraphale quieted and instead began breathing calmly. Crowley matched him, breath by breath, second by second. 

The murmur of visitors returned, the ambient sounds of the museum rushed back in an overwhelming wave of impressions, threatening to send him straight back into panic. But Aziraphale was there with him, warm and safe against his side, a soft hand in his.

He was safe.

_He was safe._

"There you are, my dear." Aziraphale slowly, so very slowly, raised his hand to dry Crowley's tears, the touch still startled him, but he relaxed as the warmth of the angel seemed to seep into his skin.

The fight or flight went out of him, strings cut, he collapsed against Aziraphale's side and closed his eyes as his vision returned. It was too much, everything was just _too much_. But the angel, _his_ angel, was right there. And he was safe.

"Oh, my love." He moved his hand from Crowley's face, and started tousling his hair instead, and he focused on the soft pressure, the slow drag of fingers through his hair, well-manicured nails scratching against his scalp. "I'm sorry I got stuck, I should've been with you." Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley made a sound in protest. It wasn't the angel's fault, it _wasn't_. It was Crowley, an anxious disaster who couldn't look at a simple painting without spiraling.

"Hush now, we should have been together, is what I'm saying. I chose the museum, the least I could do was stay with you." A gentle pull of his hair hindered any further protest.

But he still thought it. He's the one who shouldn't have wandered off if he couldn't handle it.

And how pathetic was that? A six thousand year old demon who couldn't be trusted to traverse a museum alone?

But that wasn't it, was it?

No. 

Things had been different after the apocawasn't. As if six millennia of anxiety and stress and denial had suddenly been set free. It was the same for Aziraphale, Crowley had found him shaking and crying more than once, and they helped each other, they brought each other back to earth.

They had talked about this, that the floodgates opened didn't change who they were, or who they were to each other. It just meant they had a bit more to handle, and a bit more to figure out.

"Was it... Was it the war?" Aziraphale whispered, uncertain and almost _scared_. Crowley nodded, and pushed back any thoughts of it, _later_ , he could deal with it _later_.

"Ah... Shall we go home?" Crowley nodded again, and with some effort they stood, walking away from the aura of fear and sorrow Crowley had left behind. 

He hadn't regained enough presence of mind to remember how they got back to the bookshop, or how he came to have a cup of tea in front of him, or why there was soft music drifting from the gramophone. But he was safe.

He was safe at last. He was home with his angel, they were severed from heaven and hell, free, left alone.

Free, and safe, and together. They were finally, _finally_ , able to love each other.

Everything else was secondary.


End file.
